


A 'Yuuri-less' Year

by tigersilver



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ensemble Cast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26151865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Was it a trick of the eye? The trick of his poor mind, trapped in grieving? Or was there indeed a world that contained his lost fiance, just beyond Wolfram's reach, but just under his fingertips, reflected in the Pool of the Maidens?
Relationships: Wolfram von Bielefeld/Shibuya Yuuri
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	1. Immediate Aftermath

In the months after the 27th Maou returned to Earth the tenor of the Castle subtly changed.

A less-than-keen observer would've immediately noticed there was considerably less laughter than before his departure—fewer smiles, more uneasy frowns and far too many careworn sighs circulated amongst the populace and even the gentry. Shin Makoku's citizens argued sooner and made up with less enthusiasm and the Lords Gunter and Gwendal spent a great deal of their precious time soothing the feelings of obstructive nobles, the easily irritated denizens of the castle's town and the surrounding villages, not to mention the leaders of various neighboring kingdoms, all of them quite peeved that the Chosen Maou had insensibly chosen to be elsewhere. Conrad Weller, however, wasn't around to participate in any this soothing and petting of ruffled feathers, having departed very soon after Shibuya Yuuri, with the excuse given to Gwendal that he must continue to keep a weather-eye on his teenage charge. Gwendal had no objection to that.

His Lordship Wolfram von Bielefeld wasn't doing much soothing either, having the very day after Yuuri departed packed up Greta and his assortment of seductive nightwear and retreated posthaste to the von Bielefeld family's estate to lick his wounds. They were many, it seemed, all deep and unhealing, and the comfort of his lands and the 'other' side of his extended family might do a little to ease them, or at least provide a welcome distraction. Or so he hoped. In any event, Greta was delighted to meet her various adoptive cousins, which took some of the pressure off the previous Maou's ex-Fiancé to appear relatively unfazed in private as well as in public, and that was all to the good. His visit there stretched on into weeks.

Until a swift rider arrived from Gunter and his eldest half-brother, demanding Wolf's return to Blood Pledge on the excuse that the Castle's people wanted _him_ in residence at least, since they couldn't have Yuuri. And there was more, all of it couched in verbiage that indicated Wolfram had little or no recourse: he would rule, on Yuuri's behalf, as the 28th Maou – the Ten Aristocrats had decided that (Nine in his absence, really, but who was counting?) and they would not take 'no' for an answer - not this time.

Wolf went as commanded, reluctantly, taking with him only his very favorite pink nightgown (the one Mama had given him when his luckless engagement was first announced), the golden brooch that Yuuri had somehow left behind him in his hurry and the barest minimum of outriders, insufficient for his new stature as Maou. Greta, too, of course, for he couldn't bear to leave her behind and she couldn't bear to be parted.

Greta was pleased to be 'home' (her term); Wolf less so. Blood Pledge was 'their' Castle, far more than Gwendal's or the Original King's. He had too many memories embedded in the walls and the grounds to ever be truly comfortable, although he tried quite hard to appear cheery for his daughter's sake. The halls rang with silence where there should have been the whine of the Wimp and the roar of a younger Wolfram; the grounds were empty of casual baseball players and idiots falling off their horses and other idiots spending all their valuable time shouting at the first ones. No one yelled Wolfram's name suddenly or attempted to hide behind the dusty tapestries to escape him; no one lazily slept the mornings away in the Maou's bedroom, attempting unsuccessfully to avoid their paperwork and fencing lessons. The baths held no black-haired blushing boys; the stables contained only warhorses run to fat and sleepy stablehands. It was dismal.

Wolf endured it, for Gwendal told him he must, and he was slightly more obliging now than he had been, before Yuuri. He had their private chambers moved, though, his and Greta's, to a floor below the Royal hallway, so that he wouldn't have the glimpse the barred door out of the corner of his eye or imagine that he heard his name called at odd moments late at night. The nightgown was tucked away in the bottom of the armoire, safe and secure and largely unseen. He wore the brooch, every day without fail, for he'd briefly had soaring wings lifting his weary heart and the twice-given, hastily abandoned memento symbolized his memory of them.

Time managed to flow forward, though, on a somewhat even keel, with the help of Gwendal and his mother, who stayed at Blood Pledge far past the time when they should've been elsewhere. Gunter, too, of course, who insisted on advising the newest Maou as he had the previous one, and Yozak, who could be found loitering in any empty space or sleeping like a lizard in the sun where one least expected him. Sometimes Wolfram felt that Yozak kept entirely too close an eye on his doings; he wasn't suicidal, he fumed to Gwendal's bland face, just a little lonely. His half-brother only nodded and said nothing to the point; he did not a thing to stop the red-headed spy from shadowing his baby brother.

The 28th Maou cared less and less about Yozak's intrusion on his privacy as the days dragged on. All his energies went toward Greta or the unending business of the kingdom. Yuuri's pile of paperwork had become his own – and he had to smile and be politic and unbearably polite in public far too often for his liking, all for the sake of carrying forward the peace the 27th Maou had left behind him. It was an intensive and ongoing exercise in self-control and determination and Wolfram had little energy left over for anger or even annoyance and went about his duties blind to the worried glances that followed him.

But the Great Peace held, steadied and supported and nurtured by a blonde demon warrior with a fully human daughter. The allies knew him – who could not know the beauteous Wolfram von Bielefeld, ex-Third Prince, the 27th Maou's Chosen Fiancé – and they grudgingly accepted him, as Yuuri had. _He would do_ , said the ongoing lack of uprising in Human Territories; _he would do_ , said the official ambassadorial letters, proclaiming a 'peaceful co-existence', from surly Dai Shimaron to other places even more distant and nastily foreign than that. _He had_ _changed_ , they all agreed; had come into his own, having shrugged on the mantle of his new responsibilities. Wolfram would have disagreed entirely if he'd bothered to listen – his 'own' was only scrambling after Yuuri's grand vision and that was never enough.

As the months dragged on, the 28th Maou found himself more and more often outside the walls of Blood Pledge, gladly escaping whenever he could. His thoughtful half-brother and inherited advisor turned a blind eye to his wanderings, and even sometimes even went so far as to provide a valid excuse, no doubt realizing that the high-strung blonde, however bound by his perceived duty to the absent Yuuri, would eventually crumble if there was no relief.

It was cruel to keep him, both Gwendal and Gunter agreed, but there was no one else in Shin Makoku with such a clear vision of what Yuuri Heika had been aiming for, or such an excellent grasp of how he would've done things. They needed him – _all_ of Shin Makoku needed him - so they allowed Wolfram to bolt every now and then, letting him roam as long as he stayed within the carefully proscribed boundaries. The Mazoku never went far, mindful of his duties and of Greta, who relied on him now more than ever before. But he often travelled as far as the Original King's Castle, which proved a refuge of sorts now that the Sage had departed. Ulrike was Wolfram's friend, it seemed, and not just because Shinou had once inhabited him.

It happened one day that he'd been sent off to deliver a message to Ulrike – Wolfram was the Maou, yes, but he was still Gwendal's little brother - and to retrieve a book Gunter was in need of. He arrived in the late morning, entering by way of the grand courtyard, and he and Ulrike paced slowly past the large reflecting pool Yuuri had once appeared in, discussing the intricacies of foreign affairs. She left him a moment later, excusing herself to fetch the book that Gunter wanted and the most recent pigeon-post message from one of Yozak's spies. Wolfram waited, looking about him, remembering better days.

That day, the pool was as innocent and blue as the summer sky and Wolf found his attention drawn by it while he conversed with the remaining Maidens, awaiting Ulrike's return. There was something disturbing the birds in the blue sky reflected in the pool; some round, white object hurtling by and obscuring the sun.

But it was _not_ Shin Makoku's sun that rippled in the water, nor Shin Makoku's clouds. Here, in the Demon Kingdom, it was early autumn. The sky above Wolfram was a pale, thin, transparent blue, utterly free of any fluffy mounds of moisture, not at all like the deep, rich sapphire reflected in the pool.

There it was again, that rapid movement, silent and removed from him by an untold amount of time and space.

_There!_ He could almost hear the 'thunk' as the object landed. Wolfram's lips parted.

He stopped conversing with the Maidens abruptly and peered into the pool with great curiosity, struggling to get a better view, teetering on the very edge until a nearby Maiden grabbed his arm for safety's sake.

Was that a baseball whizzing past what surely looked like—like a pitcher's mound? Was that faraway figure his Yuuri?

"Oi!" he exclaimed to the Maidens, not sparing them a glance as he did so, green eyes on the pool.

"Can you see him? Is that what I think it is?"

Oh, but it had been so _long_ since he'd glimpsed black hair and black eyes. So _long_ and he would surely pay any price at all to see them again.

Wolfram leaned perilously close to the still water, shaking off the Maiden's helpful hand, desperately seeking another glimpse of the dark-haired, dark-eyed figure.

The Pool obliged, panning in like a zoom lens to provide the 28th Maou a lovely view of the details. He could suddenly discern a whole group of young men, clad in striped red-and-white uniforms, one sporting that strange open-weave cage over his face; one swinging the oddly shaped stick just like the one Wolfram's Yuuri had brought back from Japan.

The round stitched-up object (it _was_ a baseball!) went by again – a low ball, spinning viciously until it slapped into a catcher's mitt. The black-haired boy—one among many other black-haired boys-grimaced and smiled and spit over one shoulder as he hunkered down to swing again. Another black-haired boy was jumping up and down behind him, familiar glasses catching the light.

"Yuuri?"


	2. All I Ever Wanted

Wolfram was on his knees without realizing it, glued intently on the scene playing out before him, though his eyes clung only to his Yuuri. Dirt was smeared on the 27th Maou's sweaty cheek and his hair was damp-streaked with exertion. He was grinning to beat the band, though, having just managed to whack the fourth ball thrown at him by some other young man right over the heads of all the other ones as they scrambled and shouted silently. Wolfram thought his ex-Fiancé had never looked so good.

The King of Shin Makoku remained in that humble pose throughout the remainder of the entire afternoon and well into autumn's chill twilight, never shifting from his spot, gazing spellbound into the miraculous pool that gave him his Yuuri back for the space of a few hours. His green eyes locked on and never left the rippling faraway figure of a youth who played baseball with vigor under the noonday sun and then loitered about with his various friends for hours, eventually cycled off home down lamplit streets as the reflected evening cast its long, dark fingers across the summer sky, lost to the pool's encroaching twilight.

Wolfram's straining eyes were nearly unblinking the entire time he crouched there, for he was deathly afraid to miss even a second-a breath, a shout, a grin-his shoulders hunched and bowed as he leant forward, hands gripping the cold stone lip for balance. Ulrike, returning with the book and the message, was quite positive her noble visitor would tumble right into the shallow water in his unswerving eagerness, but somehow he never did, though he never, ever glanced away either, virtually ignoring everyone else who lingered in the courtyard, even her.

Ulrike, who knew a thing or two about fate and destiny and all that hoo-hah, subsided into silence after a few token protests and sighed with resignation. She requested a temporary honor guard of Maidens be stationed in courtyard to protect his Majesty, as well as a bed made up in the Maou's Quarters, should His Majesty care to venture out of the confines of the courtyard. She knew, somehow, that their Maou would leave the pool only when it was full dark. If then.

The Maou ate his dinner alone in his rooms, late and sparingly, his attention clearly abstracted.

By eleven o'clock the following day Lord Gwendal von Voltaire had sent another message to the High Priestess, by way of pigeon-post, asking for the immediate and safe return of his youngest brother, the 28th Maou. She wrote her apologies to his lordship in a terse little note, informing Gwendal bluntly that the Demon King flatly refused to depart. The distracted fire-wielder was now reduced to taking his meals poolside, if he remembered to eat at all, and left the guarded courtyard only when his predecessor was no longer even a vague glimmer in the dusk. He slept only a few short hours that night, and fitfully, according to the Maidens stationed outside the Maou's Quarters, and was to be found at water's edge at the very crack of dawn.

She was worried about him. Enough to pray to a silent Shinou, and enough to send another, even briefer note to the Lords von Voltaire and von Kleist. When Yosak Gurrier knocked nearly silently on her study door late that third evening, Ulrike only then felt the rush of relief in her ancient veins. Help was on its way at last.

Conrad arrived promptly at noon on the fourth endless day, returned from whatever mysterious mission he'd been engaged upon, and politely queried the Maidens and Ulrike as to his half-sibling's odd behavior. Wolfram didn't even glance up when Conrad strolled over and greeted him, his attention then entirely captured by a Shibuya Yuuri sprawled on his stomach in his mother's flower garden, desultorily doing his required homework in the late afternoon sun, but obviously more nearly nine-tenths into 'nap mode'.

"Wolfram," Conrad began gently, having sent everyone else away the moment he'd gotten a good look at the 28th Maou's face. He, too, let his gaze stray absentmindedly to the peaceful figure of the 27th Maou, though he glanced more often at the haunted expression on his little brother's inordinately handsome features. Contrarily, the clean sharp-cut features glowed through the gauntness resulting from days without proper rest or nutrition; Wolfram von Bielefeld was joyful as he had not been in many months, perhaps an entire lifetime. For one who'd just spent weeks covertly observing Shibuya Yuuri slip easily back into the flow of his Earthly existence, those snapping emeralds and the pretty flush were utterly heart-wrenching. Conrad found himself wishing passionately that his cute baby brother loved his absentee fiancé but a smidgeon less. Not that he didn't understand it – he _did_ – but Wolf would never recover at this rate.

"Wolfram, you seem…tired," Conrad observed, mildly. "I think perhaps you should—"

"The wimp looks very well, don't you agree?"

But the young von Bielefeld lord was clearly not paying any real attention to his half-sibling, other than this casual question tossed in Conrad's direction, which could've been so easily asked of anyone passing by. His attention was centered on his ex-Fiancé, as always. Wolfram was speaking, Conrad realized with a jolt, simply for the sake of hearing his own voice talk of Yuuri in the present tense. As if Yuuri were here, or shortly to be so, and Wolf was merely chatting to pass the time while he awaited Yuuri's arrival.

"Healthy and tanned," Wolfram went on, oblivious to the grim path his elder younger brother's thoughts were treading, "and, you know, I think he's grown a bit. He looks like he might even be taller than me, now. Not that I can judge all that well, since the wimp's lying down again. See? Look at him, all sprawled out like that. Useless half-wit—he's _supposed_ to be working on those papers."

The fair brow crinkled into the fond memory of what had been nearly a constant, disapproving frown. Conrad coughed several times into his hand to clear his throat of the prickly lump that had taken up residence there. When he spoke again, his voice was stern and colorless.

"It's time to return to Blood Pledge, Heika. The Princess is in dire need of you. Your duties await your pleasure."

Wolfram's half-brother's tone held no hint of brotherly disapproval, no indication that in the eyes of Shin Makoku the King was clearly abandoning his responsibilities for the frivolous pleasure of watching shadows dance in a body of water. He merely stated the outcome of his and Gwendal's and Gunter's heated three-way discussion, as much as it pained him to do so, and then waited patiently for his baby brother to respond. To _remember_.

"…I guess he's not missing _us_ much, is he?" Wolfram sniped, not heeding, Conrad's presence apparently already dismissed as being of far less importance than the minutiae of Yuuri routinely avoiding his schoolwork. Wolf's green eyes darkened but they never wavered once from his ex-fiancé's face. Yuuri, head bowed over his math book, let his pen drop and laid his head on his English textbook, oblivious.

"Heika," Conrad repeated, with admirable patience. He knew young Wolfram meant no disrespect; that was not the issue here.

"You realize, though, he's having an awful lot of fun without us," Wolfram continued in a perfectly reasonable tone, as if relating the antics of a beloved child, whose misbehavior was to be expected, "what with constantly playing that annoying game of balls and sticks he loves so much and living with Mama and Lord Shoma and his honored elder brother once again…and his studies of those queer languages and then spending so much time with all those other uniformed boys who're always _fawning_ after him…."

"Your Majesty," Conrad tried again. " _Wolfram_."

"…Which is understandable, I'm sure, as Yuuri _is_ adorable, really he is," Wolfram's dulled eyes lit up for a brief moment as he defended his absent ex-Fiancé. "I never understood why he wouldn't admit it; I'm sure those _boys_ realize…and the girls, too; the ones at his Earth school and those gaming arcades he loves so much. There are so many of them, Weller-kyo…so very many double-blacks on Yuuri's Earth. But _he's_ special, Yuuri is."

Conrad only waited, summoning the patience he was famed for.

"So…it's only natural, isn't it, big brother? That he would be happy to be home again, with his family, his friends. That they would all be so thankful to have him return. He must've missed them so much while he was here—and they, him."

A silence followed that last, unfortunate realization and then Wolfram blinked rapidly, for the hot tears welling in his eyes had risen in a flood-tide, obscuring his vision nearly enough for him to lose sight of that black-haired, dark-eyed teenage boy, now napping peacefully on the green grass of his homeland, homework successfully avoided for the afternoon. The powerful ruler of an ancient, magic-imbued kingdom rubbed his pale, handsome face wearily to scrub away any telltale moisture and leaned forward just a little farther, straining to capture that precious image again, hold it close to his jealous heart.

"Not that this is a bad thing, right, Conrad? It's _good_ , isn't it? Yuuri _shouldn't_ be sad."

Conrad winced, for once unable to force any sort of smile at all, not even a wry one. He fought to keep his hands limp and relaxed at his sides, so as not to give in to the compelling urge to wrench Wolfram back from the waking dream that bespelled him.

Wolfram swallowed hard, for his light tenor had suddenly cracked on the lilt of that half-rhetorical question, disintegrating under the force of the barely suppressed words of betrayal and loss that logjammed in his jabot-bedecked throat. He brought himself back under his usual rigid control with some little effort, mainly by recalling what he'd so selflessly wished for Shibuya Yuuri, all those many months ago.

"I don't _want_ him to miss us, Conrad – I don't, really. He should be carefree, having returned to his real f-family—"

Here again his earnest dispassionate tone disappeared altogether and Wolfram stopped, unable to speak at all whilst he forced back the hot anger and the cold resentment that sought to choke him, and then had to wait a moment more before he could continue in any sort of fashion.

Yuuri had a 'family' here, too, didn't he? Conrad was certain his beautiful boy king realized that; that he'd not for one moment forgotten. But—this. This travesty of misbegotten hope-against-hope playing out before could not be bourn.

Wolfram's elder brother could stay himself no more and swept out a quick, hard arm, gently bracketing it 'round Wolfram's thin shoulders in a manly gesture that was pure emotional short-hand for the fact that he longed to sweep his little Wolfie up and away from this anguished enchantment and hug him so hard he'd squeeze out all this festering misery that bedeviled him. By Shinou, Conrad swore, life should not be so cruel to the young. It sliced him open merely to stand by and observe this from the sidelines; how must Wolfram _feel_ , going through his days in this state?

"I-I _want_ him to be happy, I _really_ want that," Wolfram stumbled on softly when he was able, fingers swiping ineffectually at the tears now trickling down his bishounen face, tucked for a moment into the comforting curve of his larger, broader elder brother's shoulder, "'because he _s-should_ be…he _deserves_ it, Conrad, e-even though h-he's only a w-wimp and a fool and a—and an indecisive c-coward!"

Wolf snarled and sobbed the familiar well-worn insults and flung a dismissive hand out over the still water to point out the idiot who'd blithely turned his back on all that was Shin Makoku to anyone who might still be watching, from the impassive guards Ulrike had set in place to the strained hazel gaze of Weller-kyo, and the tips of his calloused sword-rounghened fingers dipped too low and sent faint ripples to disrupt the clear-as-glass image of a soundly sleeping dark-haired teenager.

Wolfram snatched the offensive limb away immediately, rocking back on his heels, cursing his irrational impulse to reach out across the irreconcilable divide when he knew there was no possible way to do so. Conrad squeezed his arm harder around shaking shoulders, settling him firmly, and the trembling Maou fought a silent battle with his wayward tear ducts and believed for a moment he'd won, the unasked-for comfort from his own family easing the constriction in his chest. Scrabbling hard and deep for his pride, Wolf even found the courage for the tiniest burst of healthy anger—

"— _running away!_ —"

-until he remembered that he'd _allowed_ this actuality, had _encouraged_ it to happen, with all the love hidden in his fiery, impulsive heart.

It was a nearly silent sob, swallowed back bravely. The last one, truly, that signified Wolfram's triumph over greed and self-interest. He would do it all again, exactly as he had, if he must.

" _Leaving_ like that, I didn't get a chance to tell him—"

But there was still regret.

"Wolfram."

The young Mazoku shrugged irritably at what he thought was pity in his older brother's husky voice, losing Conrad's arm in the process, and shifted to sit on his haunches, wrapping his arms around his bruised, tattered knees. He peeked once more at the pale transparency that reflected the 27th Maou from between the mishappen shield of kneecaps, insanely reassured to see the reformed image had not dissipated while he'd been busy being weak-willed and unjustifiably angry. Though, if he had to admit it…

…If he _had_ to admit it, this ireful venting on his big brother was crucial to Wolfram's wavering heart; someone _else_ should hear and acknowledge and share them - these oft-swallowed regrets, these bitter ramblings - before they drowned his kingly resolve altogether and sent him fleeing back to the dubious comfort of the von Bielefeld estate. Wolf was no coward; had never been. He was angry. Understandably so.

"I _didn't_ ," Wolf started firmly, recognizing that, acknowledging it and putting it behind him without a backwards glance. "I _wasn't_ given the opportunity to tell that wimp much of _anything_ , not even that I was proud of him, not even that I'd miss him."

One of the Maou's long elegant hands slid from a knee and found the stone lip of the pool, caressing the carved edges of the hewn black marble lightly as he rambled. Conrad hesitated over grabbing at it – if he did, he could silently reinforce for his little brother that he had full support from his loving family, in everything he did, in every battle won or weakness revealed. If he didn't, Wolfram's fragile pride wouldn't be offended. And his little brother so very much needed his trademark pride right at this crucial moment, Conrad knew—perhaps more so now than at any other time in his short life.

"I had so much to say to him and now he can't hear me anymore, Conrad. He can't see me—"

"Wolfram, I'm sorry," Conrad interrupted, sighing bitterly. He knew 'regret' himself, far too intimately for his liking. Its poisonous effects could only be countered with positive action, with the steady hope that all had been for the best. But how could he – or anyone, really? - possibly in good conscious advise his brother that Yuuri had done the right thing by leaving his fiancé behind when Conrad didn't believe that himself?

"...but at least _I_ can see _him_."

It was pure unadulterated comfort, this simple vision of Shibuya Yuuri going about his unremarkable days; nothing more, nothing less. It didn't make the physical distance between them any smaller; it didn't solve the insurmountable problem of 'here' and 'there', but it did somehow lessen the sting of Wolfram's self-imposed exile.

The Maou sniffled delicately, rubbing his damp nose on his much-abused knee, a crooked and rueful half-smile reluctantly turning up the corner of his perfectly-formed and kissable mouth. True, this particular feature of Wolf's was made for that type of exercise but Shibuya Yuuri had kissed it only once, only once, and now there would never be another chance of that.

And yes, Wolf could consider it that way and angrily mourn all that he'd done for Yuuri's sake, every silent sacrifice, every weak-willed leap into the breach…or he could be grateful for this unexpected gift – this vicarious sharing of Yuuri's current Earth-centered life.

Conrad sat back and watched as the 28th Maou huddled in silence for a while longer, his thoughtful eyes on Yuuri's lips and Yuuri's brows, the line of Yuuri's jaw and the black hair ruffling in some unfelt breeze, the width of shoulders in a casual T-shirt and the length of leg sprawled elegantly across grass. Wolfram memorized all these graces, as though they weren't already engraved on his retinas; he devoured them, storing them up as fuel for the cold, lonely days to come. He'd have to leave soon; Greta was waiting. He could tell her all about it, though carefully, for fear of getting her hopes up, as his had been, the moment those laughing black eyes had rippled into clarity beneath his very nose.

It had been sorely tempting, not begging Ulrike for some hint as to how to cross the ineluctable divide that separated him from his fiancé. If he could have managed it just by jumping in the water at his feet, Wolf would have long since drowned there, battering his body against the tiled bottom of the reflecting pool. But it was not so simple, Shinou's magic, and he knew that Ulrike could not oblige him – that power was gone with Shinou and Yuuri, as the Original King was gone, as his darling wimp was gone, forevermore.

Wolf would've run after him way back when, if he could've, if he'd been certain he was welcome. If Yuuri had looked back even once, or even turned his head that miniscule amount needed to acknowledge him, he would've flung himself into the void, welcome or not. It had taken every uncountable drop of love in his heart to urge Yuuri to go back to his 'real' home – Wolfram von Bielefeld would have sold his immortal soul to the devil to go with.

And he'd been barely half-alive since Yuuri had departed his kingdom, Wolf realized, for his heart had managed to follow even if his body could not, trailing forlornly after Yuuri on Earth as surely as he'd followed him about like a mad nanny here in Shin Makoku.

It didn't seem fair, not at first, Yuuri laughing and joking and obviously having a very good time without him. It didn't seem right, Wolfram fumed, that he should be here all alone and suffering and Yuuri should be surrounded by the people he loved best in the world. But nothing was fair or right or equitable about unrequited love and he didn't even care about _that_ anymore, if only Yuuri would return to his rightful place.

They needed him here, didn't they? He wasn't alone in his unending longing, was he? But he wasn't supposed to even wish for it, Wolfram admitted, or never aloud, at least. Such selfish words had power, and his Yuuri had chosen elsewhere.

Beside him, Conrad climbed at last to his feet, his legs stiff from sitting so long in one position. He was older and wiser than the boy who sat so patiently before him, Conrad knew, but maybe Wolfram had the right of it, all the same. Passion was the lifeblood of Shin Mazoku—better a Maou who would willingly die for a cause than a wishy-washy fence-sitter waiting on the sidelines. On impulse, Conrad patted the bright head below him reassuringly, as he had done when Wolfram was but a very small child.

"I'm going in, Wolfram. Lunch is laid out – come join us when you're ready."

Weller strolled away, his face set in grave lines, for if Wolfram still point-blank refused to leave now that Conrad had come to fetch him, it would be very difficult to force him further. And had they not already done him enough disservice?

"Damn you, oh Wise Shinou," Conrad muttered, his voice low enough not to be overheard by any of Ulrike's watchful Maidens. "You'd better be absolutely certain of exactly what've you've done- _this_ time."


	3. Chance is a Fine Thing

"Um," Wolf muttered in vague acknowledgement, but he was already leaning toward the pool, uncaring that his unasked-for audience was leaving.

Shibuya Yuuri was finally awake again after his nap, blinking at the late afternoon breeze that stirred his hair. The dark eyes stared at the darkening blue expanse visible through the tree limbs above him and then he turned his head abruptly, scenting something _, something_ on that invisible breeze. Wolfram sat forward with equal suddenness– something _, something_ was calling him, grabbing his attention, snagging him as surely as fish on a hook – and then his startled green eyes found Yuuri's black ones, meeting them squarely for the first time in all his long, bittersweet vigil.

It was purely impossible, finding Yuuri's face and form in a pool of water, no matter how full of maryoku that water might be. It was even more unlikely that the Fates or the gods or even the Great Shinou had allowed him so long a time to gaze his fill at his long-beloved, his lost fiancé, nor given him freely these many hours to spend entranced in a gauzy bubble of vicarious happiness. Some part of Wolfram von Bielefeld was immensely grateful for that.

But it was completely outside the bounds of chance that their eyes should meet across the gap that separated them; that Yuuri should actually be aware of Wolfram, by now practically hanging over the rolled edge of the pool, suspended by knee and neatly-clipped fingernails in an impossible arch that brought his recently sleeve-scrubbed but still damp face within what seemed a mere yard of Yuuri's curious one.

" _Wolf…?"_

The delighted Mazoku could almost hear it, the surprise in Yuuri's voice, though only silence echoed in the courtyard. He could see Yuuri's lips going round with shock; his blacker-than-black eyes widening with amazement, and a delighted grim blooming on the face that daily haunted Wolf's dreams. The 'true'—at least, according to the current—Demon King of Shin Makoku struggled up from Earth's verdant grass, scattering school books and scribbled-on papers in his haste.

" _Wolfram!"_

Yuuri had leapt fully to his feet now, the smile taking over in that exact way that Wolfram so clearly remembered and so dearly loved. His Yuuri was gabbling inaudibly with excitement, almost hopping up and down in that weird little dance he always did, and Wolfram laughed aloud with the sheer joy of it.

"Wimp! Oh— _wimp_!"

Wolfram was stretched so far forward over the shimmering scene that it was miracle that he didn't lose his balance when Yuuri's reflection stumbled forward over its own sneakered feet, palms out, beckoning silently for Wolfram to come, come, _come here to me_ —

"Yuuri!" Wolfram could nearly hear him; could almost reach him—it wasn't so far, after all.

So, Wolfram von Bielefeld did what he'd really wanted to do on that horrible, horrible day he'd sent Yuuri away for the last time and flung himself forward into the tiny gap that remained yet between them, and fell with absolutely no regrets at all, emerald eyes and rosy mouth wide open, with a crash and a splash and a drenching wave, face first into the water. He expected long-fingered square hands to meet him, a warm chest to fall onto, the marvelous sound of Yuuri's excited voice exclaiming over this coincidence—this miracle!—oh, all the wonderful signs that would mean the end of this long, foul drought of the heart that had whittled the 28th Maou bare and left him nearly soulless.

"Yuuri! Yuuri! I missed you so-!"

_Glug, glug._

No hands, no chest. No dark eyes, nor silken hair black as midnight filtering through his eager fingertips. No familiar voice shouting his name in surprise and delight. No nothing, only darkness and what was most likely _not_ water, after all.

But it filled Wolf's lungs just as water would, should one attempt to breathe it; to shout through it, and cry out the name always rising unbidden in his throat.

_**Glug!** _ _Drowning!_

The clear sweet not-water flashed black in his startled green gaze, flooding lungs straining still to call out. There was death in this pool of maryoku, hand-in-hand with his fiancé's reflection. Wolfram paid it no heed; what could death do to him that Life had not done already?

_Yuuri!_

If he could manage to hold out just a little longer, a little farther, and more, and reach—and reach even farther, then maybe then he'd have his ex-fiancé back, if only for an hour or so. Long enough to actually speak with him, have a conversation, tell him things— _they were fine,_ he'd say, casually _, and Greta missed her other Papa, and Shin Makoku was doing well enough without Yuuri._ Wolf would tell Yuuri that he shouldn't worry about it; that he should live his life, and not look back—they'd miss him, of course. _Wolf missed him, too, all the time, every moment, but..._

_But—_

_Glug…ohgods! Yuuri!_

_**Greta!** _

The reflecting pool in the Old King's Castle was endless, and fathoms deep. There was no bottom to touch off and find sufficient purchase to force Wolfram's logy, heavy body back up to the surface. The mosaic tile that had seemed only inches below the silvery surface was gone entirely and only a murky, misty eddy sent bubbles upwards before him. Wolfram was waylaid by the cosmos, and quite possibly lost.

And then there was only the dark, and the cold, and Wolf knew he'd failed again, when it was most important, and he'd never have his conversation, or touch those hands even in passing, or smell the heat rising off that precious body. It was simply not to be.

_Yuuri_.

Conrad and the Shrine Maiden guards fished him out, dripping, and set him trembling and choking on the pavers of the courtyard, exclaiming at his impulsiveness and the fact that he was pale and soaked and shaking as if with ague. The pool had gone dark and still when Wolfram finally dared glance back over his shoulder – no Yuuri there, no late summer afternoon, no tree limbs rustling in the inaudible breeze.

_No Yuuri_ –

-and the tears cascaded down his paler-than-death face and salted the pure, sweet water of the Original King's Reflecting Pool with rue and despair. Then Conrad hustled him into the Original King's Castle, methodically stripping off the wet clothes as they went.

Wolfram, the reigning Maou of Shin Makoku, cried for hours, racked with sobs like the veriest child, tucked up under mountains of blankets by Ulrike, a warming pan at his feet. His elder brother came and went, along with any number of Maidens wise in Healing, and everyone checked Wolf's forehead for fever and examined his limbs and the still-damp mop of blonde hair for injuries. The Maou had none, at least none visible, but he would not cease his hiccoughing, pitiful sobs.

Conrad remembered eventually that his little brother had not shed a single tear since his godson's departure to Earth, all those many months ago. Three-quarters of a year had passed here in the Kingdom, though for Yuuri it had been a much shorter time. Time and lives were still splintered; the current Maou had no control over the portal between Earth and Shin Makoku.

Wolfram's tears, Conrad recalled, had fallen freely from those wide emerald eyes, that day, the last one, silent and terrible to witness, and Yuuri had not turned back, even then. The Earth Maou had been waiting impatiently and Earth itself had seemed to beckon, and Conrad's little brother had practically shoved his accidental fiancé towards his old home with the force of his words.

"Go!" he'd said, firmly. "Go home to your family, Yuuri! Don't worry about me." Conrad would bet his right arm his godson had never known what those words had cost his accidental fiancé.

And likely still didn't, back safe on Earth as he was, caught up in all the things Japanese high school boys got up to in their young lives.

Conrad pondered that particular anomaly in Wolfram's usually selfish and spoilt behaviour briefly and then sent a short, decisive message off by carrier pigeon to a destination he did not disclose to either Wolf or Ulrike. After all, he wasn't the only one who'd been summoned back to Shin Makoku through the portal. But what could be done—if anything-was yet a mystery, and there was only one person Conrad believed to be sage enough to pick through this mess and shed some much needed light on the subject.


	4. The Hand I've Been Dealt

It was near midnight when the Great Sage arrived at the Original King's Castle, clad in his usual schoolgarb blacks and trademark glasses. Wolfram, finally recovered enough to pay heed to the quiet bustle around him, eyed Murata-san suspiciously through swollen eyes and only vaguely wondered as to why Geika was here when Yuuri was not. Yuuri was _not_ , and that was all that mattered, really.

Murata sat on the end of Wolfram's borrowed bed with no hesitation, making himself quite at home.

"W-what?"

Wolfram's voice was thin with tears, still clogged, but there was a hint of his old impatience there. He'd never liked this Murata Ken, who spent so much time with _his_ Yuuri…even now.

"It would've worked, you know, if you waited just a little longer," the Great Sage smiled blandly and nodded his head, glasses glinting in a very familiar way.

"W-what? _What_ would've worked, you—you _Sage_?"

The blonde sat up in a hurry, clutching a sodden pillow before him. He frowned furiously, white brow wrinkling, temper visibly beginning to seep into his weary bones, and glared at his unwelcome visitor, his little-boy-lost mien morphing quite definitely into Shin Makoku's regal 28th Maou.

"Explain, Murata-san, if you please."

Murata's smile grew, curving mischievously along the edges, and his eyes widened behind the lenses that hid them.

"I'm just saying that if you'd waited a little longer, Heika, it would've worked. You would have passed through the Portal. But Shibuya's still figuring stuff out, so of course it didn't. You have to be patient, you know. That wasn't the right time."

There was a brief silence while narrowed green eyes grew round and Murata smiled calmly, as always.

" _When?_ "

Wolfram skipped over any need for explanation – he was sharp as a tack when it came to his fiancé – and got right to the meat of the matter.

"Oh, well, I think it'll be soon," the Sage shrugged. "But I can't tell you exactly when—"

"What can I _do_?!"

Wolfram sat forward, soldier's hands clenched in his lap, all traces of tears gone. The gears of his ready mind whirred furiously: if it was the Reflecting Pool that was needed, then he could stay here and call Greta to him—if Yuuri was really coming back to Shin Makoku, Wolf needed to return to Blood Pledge immediately—if he could see him again-!

"How can I make it happen sooner, Murata-san? _Tell_ _me_!"

"Wait," the Great Sage smirked, his manner almost catty, his dark eyes mere slits behind the lenses. "Wait some more, after that. Shibuya's noticeably slow, you see, so you'll likely be waiting a while."

"Here?" Wolfram flung out a hand to indicate the castle around him. The Sage was being downright insolent, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered but Yuuri.

Murata shook his dark, shiny head and shrugged his shoulders in a vague motion, which would have annoyed a normal Wolfram no end. Now, the 28th Maou only waited patiently for an answer, his lean body coiled tense in the mussed bed.

"Nope, doesn't matter where," Murata told him, casually lounging back on one hand. He waved the other in the air and then settled his glasses again.

"Here's good or Blood Pledge Castle or wherever you're most comfortable, Heika. You may return to von Bielefeld if that's better for you and the Princess. There's water, water everywhere, so plopping yourself down by one bit of water isn't going to make a lot of difference to where or when—not in the long run."

Wolfram clasped his hands again, regarding his fingers with great intensity and clamping his full, rosy mouth in a thin line, apparently stopping himself from asking 'how long?' or 'when?' yet again. The Sage wasn't planning on telling, it seemed.

"You can think about a few things while you wait, though, 'Yuuri's fiancé'." All traces of any amusement were vanished from Murata's easy tenor; he was grave, and quite possibly dangerous with it.

The blonde head came up sharply and emerald eyes stared piercingly at the shield of the glasses. Wolfram raised an enquiring eyebrow, waiting.

"Like how you'll behave when he's back again and whether your previous attempts were successful. You're a smart guy, Heika; you can figure it out."

Wolfram's shoulders went rigid at the insult and Murata Ken thought for a brief moment his companion had managed to break a few of those aristocratic fingers, so tightly were they overlapped and laced together. But the 28th Maou said nothing, only nodding his acceptance after the slightest of pauses.

Perhaps it wasn't truly an insult, but advice, instead. The Great Sage was indeed a mysterious man.

"….And you can consider what he'll need from you when he returns, what things he'll ask of you," Murata went on, his voice quiet in the hushed confines of the Maou's chamber. "This is a new world, is it not? No war, no Boxes, no Shinou behind the scenes, orchestrating all of you—all of _us_. Things are very different now. _Your_ role will be different, Lord von Bielefeld. The way you protect him and care for him will be different, too. Think about _that_ , 'Yuuri's fiancé.'"

The Sage stood up abruptly, shoving his glasses back up his short nose, and the 28th Maou regarded him soberly before nodding sharply a second time.

"I will."

It was a blood-promise, that. A blade of fealty flung high in honour of a much-beloved Demon King no one had ever wanted to see departed, and by no means the least of those loyal-to-the-death demons who so ardently wished Shibuya Yuuri back again was the previous Maou's cruelly abandoned 'accidental' fiancé.

The Sage grinned at the terribly handsome young man in the bed before him, for once without the slightest hint of guile in his snapping black eyes, well satisfied at last that Wolfram von Bielefeld remained his same, steadfast self—true to Shibuya to his very last breath, and not in any way grasping after the enormous power bestowed by his current, albeit temporary, title of Maou.

In truth, Wolfram von Bielefeld, the person, was much thinner and grimmer than Murata remembered him, the notable eyes far too large in a pale face gone bony with careless nutrition. His had been a healthy, shining bishounen handsomeness, a true 'pretty boy' by the definition of Murata's homeland, but now von Bielefeld was almost ethereal—or perhaps the better descriptive was 'gaunt', whittled away by time's passing. An Ice Prince, Wolfram was, enspelled by a wicked cruel sorcerer called Chance.

But, still, Lord von Bielefeld was capable, intelligent and compassionate–both Gwendal and Gunter had been quite eager to regale Ken with the decisive actions the reluctant 28th Maou had taken in Shibuya's absence, every one of them pointed towards the goal of a lasting peace. The fiery young demon had the makings of an excellent Consort, the Sage recalled—or perhaps he'd foretold that already. He would indeed be that, Murata decided, judging by his cool, determined reaction to Ken's news, and due to that undying, unchanging faith in Shibuya Yuuri, von Bielefeld might quite possibly end up the greatest co-Ruler ever recorded in Shin Makoku's long history.

The Sage, however, impudently elected to keep that particular tidbit to himself for the moment. No need to spoil all the fun by spilling the beans too early—there was still quite a lot of entertainment value to be had of this situation.

"Then I'll be going," Murata announced, his business done, and successfully. "I've got a meeting tomorrow, one I can't miss. So, hey—take care of yourself, 'Yuuri's fiancé', okay? The Maou will be depending on you."

Murata turned once more at the door, glancing behind him solely for Shibuya's sake to ensure the blonde's pale colour had improved with his visit (it had) and there was life again in those amazing eyes of his (oh, yes), and then nodded in polite parting at Shibuya's fated (and chosen) ball-and-chain.

He nodded another casual farewell to Ulrike's stolid guards at the door on his way out, quite eager to return to the company of the remaining Maidens, who were likely cavorting half-dressed by the now-deserted reflecting pool, performing sacred rites. Oh, how he'd missed the girls these last boring weeks on Earth! Nothing, but _nothing_ could beat a Shrine Maiden performing rites on a night holy to the spirit of the Great Shinou! Especially ones garbed solely in see-through wet white robes and skimpy pink panties!

"… _Thank you_."

Half-heard as the door shut behind Murata, soft as a whisper, but still sincere and somewhat humbled, Wolfram von Bielefeld called after the Sage at the very last moment—and meant his thanks with all his urgent young heart. He'd be waiting, Murata knew, the fool, probably camped out daily by Blood Pledge's fountain, totally riled up and ready to go the moment poor Shibuya hit the water.

But Shibuya would definitely be happy to hear he was so devotedly remembered by the idiot blond fire wielder, Murata concluded, tapping down the empty stone corridor in his regulation school loafers, the required footwear of this era's Sage. Pity he couldn't let Yuuri know von Bielefeld's reaction right away. But maybe later—quite a lot later, actually, perhaps when the dust had settled after the great wind of the 27th Maou's momentous return.

Time enough, now, not to hurry matters along anymore than they already were. Time enough for many, many interesting things to transpire—and enough Mazoku magic abounding to perhaps grant even a poor overworked Sage a wish of his own. It was, after all, a night sacred to the royal spirit of the Great Shinou himself—a night on which the man was said to often appear in the flesh.

Murata Ken shivered ever so slightly, his breath half-hitched in his throat—in _anticipation_.

End

_NB: A few of you have mentioned that this is a 'prequel' of sorts to 'Kiss & Tell'. You are exactly right! It _is _, and it's paired with my Yuuri-POV fic 'Absence': two different versions of the time they spent apart, set right after Yuuri choose Earth at the end of the second season._

_Time runs faster on Earth than it does in Shin Makoku, which is why Wolfram suffered through a year and Yuuri only had approximately 8 weeks or so on his end. When he returns, through a different path of water, the events of 'Kiss & Tell' start fairly shortly thereafter—within six months or so, and by that time, Yuuri's turned seventeen and is starting to look a little more like his Great Maou alter-ego. He gains some confidence, too, along with his good looks and stellar abs, which helps a bit. Wolfram, on the other hand, has lost his utter arrogant certainty concerning the promised marriage, and that leads to any number of angsty and hopefully amusing hijinks._

_Thanks to you all for sticking with me through all these many, many words. I hope I've built an AU you'll enjoy 'ever after'._

_Ta, Tiger_


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